Friday, February 25, 2011

Hospital Room

There is something about hospitals that mixes my emotions. It is a place where new lives are born and old lives begin to end. Today I am here for the latter. Sitting in this musky grey room, the green foliage curtains are begging to bring some kind of life to this world of needles, IVs and blue rubber gloves. Empty coffee cups are scattered about, showing signs of a wife desperate to stay awake and attend the every need of her weary husband.

As the rest of the family begins to arrive, his physical and mental state begin to deteriorate. Hellos and goodbyes are no more. Names are disappearing and faces are beginning to blend together. Yet in the old man's face is a lifetime of memories. A lifetime of love, sacrifice, and hardship. Married 58 years to the love of his life, he wouldn't change one day of it. They bicker and banter, but they can't live without each other. I try and imagine what it will be like to married for almost six decades. I have no idea where we'll be or what we'll be like, but I do know that if we have even half the love and companionship these two have for each other we will be two very lucky people.

His pale white skin is beginning to bead with sweat now because for him, the simple task of breathing has evolved into a full contact sport. This place is filled with people gripping onto life. Some of the rooms are filled with despair, confusion and sorrow. But ours is different. Though there is sadness and sorrow, there is an over abundance of deep compassionate love.